


Remedial Physicality

by shaenie



Series: Adapting to Physicality [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, First Time, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaenie/pseuds/shaenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re all smart people, they pick up on Bruce's body language and incorporate it into their actions easily enough. So that from the very beginning he ends up with plenty of space around him, an unspoken but well-understood bubble of unbreakable distance, while the rest of them ease into one anothers company so smoothly that even Natasha can be touched, as long as she’s handled with care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remedial Physicality

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to cindyjade (LJ) for cheerleading and isagel (DW) for a fantastic beta. I appreciate you both very much. <3

Bruce doesn’t like to be touched.

But, no he won’t say that. Because he’s a scientist, and he doesn’t allow himself the luxury of telling himself the lies that he implies to others. Even if he never _says_ those lies aloud, even if he only lets himself project the idea of it -- they’re all smart people, they pick up on that body language and incorporate it into their actions easily enough. So that from the very beginning he ends up with plenty of space around him, an unspoken but well-understood bubble of unbreakable distance, while the rest of them ease into one anothers company so smoothly that even Natasha can be touched, as long as she’s handled with care.

Bruce. Well. Bruce aches to be touched, aches to be able to sprawl across the obscenely comfortable couch in the main living area, his head on Tony’s thigh (where Steve’s head presently rests), his feet in Thor’s lap. And they would let him. Hell, they would welcome him with open arms -- literally in some cases, like Tony and Thor, but easily by the others as well.

They aren’t afraid of him.

Bruce is _afraid_ to be touched. He’s afraid it will become a familiar constant in a ridiculously short amount of time, and once it becomes familiar, he can barely imagine what it would be like to lose it.

It’s not that he’s ready to run, or planning on it, even. Each of them, in their own way, have made him the same promise. That he is theirs, and they are his, and that he’ll never have to run again.

And Bruce _believes_ them like he’s never believed anyone before.

He believes in Tony’s Hulk room -- and perhaps more importantly, Hulk believes in it. After the last dozen fights, Bruce has come to himself in the large, colorful room, strewn with cushions and beanbags, painted with physics equations and double helixes, musically enhanced with every classical piece that Tony had been able to get his hands on.

And that’s just the top floor.

Beneath it, there is a room for Hulk to smash, filled with metal he can bend and twist, logs and barrels and other things that make satisfying smashing sounds, including a stripped down, beat up volkswagen beetle, but even that room. Well, Bruce has only come to there once. And even then, only the beetle had taken any noticeable damage.

The room upstairs seems to be enough for the Hulk.

Bruce doesn’t remember, not in any linear fashion, but he gets flashes, images, sometimes, and when he wakes in the upstairs room, he barely twinges with the pain of the transformation. Someone always leaves food. There are clothes in the closet that fit him. He is taken care of. His counterpart is taken care of.

And he’s seen the footage. He’s heard Hulk take orders from Steve and sometimes from Tony. He’s even seen his greener half go out of his way to backup Clint and Natasha, though Hulk seems to feel like Thor requires little in the way of supervision. He’s seen the way expressions flit across the Hulk’s face in battle.

It’s a little bit like a miracle to know that the monster in him is a _thinking_ creature. Perhaps not quick-thinking, although he’s seen enough to know that Hulk _can_ react quickly if one of the team is in danger. But. He’s more than just an embodiment of Bruce’s rage. That much is clear enough.

He’d love to test that theory. He is a scientist after all. But he can’t imagine that Hulk would appreciate it, considering his past experience with tests like that.

Even in his own personal bubble of space, he can feel the rest of them watching him. Not with wary, leary gazes, not looking at the possibility of the Hulk, but with warmth and welcome that Bruce doesn’t know how to respond to. It makes him weary and happy all at once, and he thinks it might be enough. Just knowing might be enough.

**

It’s Tony that begins to test his boundaries. Of course it is. Tony who had thought nothing of poking him with an electrified probe while they had known each other for less than two hours, and Bruce isn’t sure why it had taken him so long, honestly.

More than that, Tony is careful. Not afraid, but cautious of the boundaries that Bruce has set for himself. Tony comes into Bruce’s lab to bat ideas around, but he stays carefully out of Bruce’s ‘zen zone’ -- Tony had coined the phrase, and they’d all picked it up immediately. It makes Bruce smile every time he hears it, partly because it’s not really right -- if Bruce had a ‘zen zone’ then the radius of it would be several states or even countries away -- and partly because Tony’s knack of nick-naming things is faintly ridiculous in its own right.

It’s when Bruce ventures into Tony’s lab that Tony begins a slow and gradual dance of decreasing radii, asking Bruce to hold things for him, easing Bruce onto one of the lab benches with nothing but his increasing nearness. He sends Dummy to give Bruce tools and smoothies and, Bruce thinks, just to let Bruce become familiar with the robot in his space. Bruce accepts it because... well. He accepts it because he had known what he was in for when he’d first set foot in this place.

The first time he feels Tony lean forward against his shoulder to look at a simulation Bruce is running, Bruce jolts helplessly, and feels his face go hot and and his body rigid. Tony ignores it, leaning snugly along Bruce’s back, and pointing out a series of higher degree polynomials that Bruce could stand to simplify.

After that, Tony touches him all the time when he’s in Tony’s workshop, as though he’s making up for all the other touches that Bruce is missing out on in other places. He still resists the urge to do so in Bruce’s own lab, or on those nights that the Avengers get together to watch movies or just relax, limbs crossing and overlapping, hands in the hair of whomever happens to be closest, bodyparts resting against whomever is available. Bruce watches and he feels Tony’s eyes on him, but none of the others seem to notice.

**

Tony is handsy in the morning, and also late at night. Bruce is unsure of the time, and doesn’t know which this occasion falls under.

Bruce is in Tony’s lab because he needs the processing power -- Tony had promised him an upgrade first thing in the morning, but he hadn’t made any attempt to stop Bruce from settling into his lab. Or at least he’s pretty sure Tony hadn’t. The trip from his lab to Tony’s is basically a long string of equations spooling out in his head while he juggled to keep it all at the front of his brain. It’s several hours later -- the robots, he sees, have been put to bed -- and Bruce is in the throes of that unique brand of scientific pleasure-release that comes from having things flow together into a perfect specific conclusion.

He’s sitting slightly hunched over at the end of a lab bench, bleary gaze still focused on the holo table he’d commandeered, and for a long moment, isn’t aware that the heavy warmth along his back is Tony. Then Tony turns his head and sort of snuffles in Bruce’s hair. Bruce freezes, but Tony must be almost as light a sleeper as Bruce, because he murmurs, “Did you get it?” He snuffles Bruce’s hair again and Bruce realizes that one of Tony’s hands is spanning each of his thighs at the same time that he realizes that Tony’s breath on the back of his neck is making his skin prickle and that he’s well on his way to a hard on.

Bruce doesn’t make any sudden moves. He knows Tony well enough to be sure that anything that feels like Bruce running away will make Tony even more grabby. “I did,” he says softly.

“What’d you make?” Tony asks, sliding to rest his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce’s traitorous body wants to lean back against Tony.

“Bio-chemical transmitters,” Bruce says. “Thor isn’t good about wearing his comm, and I invariably lose mine when I...” He pauses, and then chooses Tony’s wording deliberately. “When I Hulk out.”

Tony’s smile across his shoulder blade feels sharp and wicked. Then Bruce feels him blink.

“So you made...”

“A soluble neurotransmitter that can be either ingested or injected, depending on how quickly you need it online. It’s totally harmless, lasts about six hours -- but I can push that in either direction, depending on what we need -- and breaks down into inert organics that our bodies will pass harmlessly.” Tony’s head comes up off his shoulder.

“Seriously?” he says. He sounds both delighted and impressed.

Bruce tries not to preen.

“Yes,” he says. Then adds, “Well, it won’t do anything for SHIELD communications, unless someone wants to try to go shoot up Fury...”

Tony’s lips brush across the angle of Bruce’s jaw when he says, “Fuck SHIELD, this is some proprietary shit, Banner, and he can keep talking through the comms.” Tony is grinning; Bruce can hear it in his voice. “I can’t _wait_ to try it.” His hands track up to Bruce’s stomach and give him a gentle reverse hug. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Bruce grins, too. The team appreciates him, and not _just_ for his giant green rage monster, but only Tony is really in it for his mind, too, is in it for the entire package. That fact shouldn’t send more blood to pool at his groin, but he’s not that surprised. He isn’t used to this kind of contact. Tony getting in his space isn’t anything compared to Tony basically holding him in his arms.

He means to clear his throat and make a movement away from Tony -- as would be prudent -- but instead he sighs and lets his head loll back against Tony’s shoulder. Tony’s hands tighten across Bruce’s chest. He can feel the arc reactor pressed up against his back.

“Tell me something true,” Tony murmurs in a voice that’s so totally unlike his own that Bruce would’ve doubted the source if he couldn’t feel Tony’s lips moving against his cheek.

There is no doubt in Bruce’s mind that this is meant to be a serious moment, all of Tony’s cheek laid aside, and he’d like to quote mathematical proofs to deflect it, but in the end he can’t bring himself to answer Tony’s gentleness with guile.

“I’m afraid to get used to this,” Bruce whispers hoarsely instead. Tony doesn’t say anything, but presses a warm, chaste kiss against Bruce’s cheek.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Tony asks.

“I could lose it all... again,” Bruce admits, chest tight with fear.

“So it’s better not to have it at all?” Tony’s tone is so gentle that Bruce feels tears prick at his eyes. Tony shifts so that Bruce is cradled back along his chest, Tony’s hand pressed against his heart.

“I don’t know,” Bruce whispers honestly. “The last time... it would have been better. Now. It’s different. With all of you. And I don’t know.” He feels like he’s filleting his heart inside his chest, but it’s true. He’s been watching and wanting, and it’s only been a few months. He isn’t sure how long he can resist the unspoken but unmistakable invitation.

“What is it you want?” Tony asks. His hand moves up to brush Bruce’s hair away from his face.

“That’s kind of the problem,” Bruce says a little bitterly. “I want it all. I’m just not sure I can have it.”

Bruce isn’t sure where it would have gone from there, but JARVIS announces, “Captain Rogers, Sirs,” and apparently opens the door for him without asking for permission. Bruce tenses, and would have jumped out of Tony’s grasp except for the way Tony holds him still, his warm breath light on Bruce’s jaw.

“Breakfast,” Steve says, glancing at them, but not seeming surprised at seeing them fitted together like spoons. “I guessed that you’d roped Bruce into marathon science when he didn’t come down this morning.”

“Exactly the opposite, actually,” Tony says mildly, and fills Steve in on the bio-chemical transmitters that Bruce had forced his way into the lab to make.

Steve looks impressed in that way he does when it’s clear that he doesn’t understand all of what is being discussed, but is still planning a way to use it in the field anyway.

He hands Bruce a plate of eggs and hashbrowns, which Bruce takes with the abrupt realization that he’s ravenous. Steve carries the second plate to one side and begins to hand feed Tony, which Bruce only realizes when Tony makes a happy munching noise practically in Bruce’s ear. Bruce doesn’t say anything, because he’s honestly not sure what exactly to say. The only thing he can think of is that the two of them operate so smoothly with the hand-feeding that it’s something they have to have done before.

Something low and tight in Bruce’s belly turns over, but he finishes his food anyway. He’s spent far too long wondering where his next meal was going to come from to not take advantage of food when it’s present.

Steve collects their dishes, makes a pot of coffee, and then gives them both a quirky grin. “Care and feeding of two scientists, now. I’ll have to discuss my workload with my union rep.”

Tony snorts. “I own your union rep.”

Steve grins, but his eyes are serious when he looks past Bruce to look at Tony. “We all good here?” he asks, and even Bruce can tell that the question is nowhere near as simple as Steve is making it sound.

“Yeah,” Tony says, oddly quiet -- maybe, Bruce thinks, thunderstruck, a little _shy_ \-- “If we don’t show up by dinner, maybe check?”

Steve nods, his face clearing, but he still turns to Bruce. Steve’s eyes are very blue and very direct. “Bruce?” he asks.

Bruce can’t break the single word query down to the multitude of things that it could mean, so he chooses to go for the most direct answer he can. “Good. Thanks.”

Steve flashes him a blinding grin and then vanishes from the workshop with the dirty dishes.

Bruce, in a fit of curiosity that normally probably wouldn’t overcome his brain-to-mouth filter, asks, “Are you sleeping with him?”

He isn’t even sure what answer he wants to hear. If it’s yes, then Bruce has an excuse to put aside the warmth of Tony’s embrace. If it’s no, then it seems like a terrible waste to extract himself from it.

What he doesn’t expect is for Tony to say, “For a given degree of sleeping with, I’m sleeping with all of them except you.”

Bruce says nothing.

“Not always or even that often, but when they need it or I need it. When we need each other.”

Bruce thinks about that for a long moment, then says, “But Steve is different. He takes care of you in other ways than that.”

“So do you,” Tony says so matter of factly that Bruce doesn’t know how to argue the point. “No one else can keep up with me, or even put up with me, the way that you do.” Tony stands, and Bruce’s mouth actually opens as though to object; he snaps it closed quickly. Tony goes and pours them cups of coffee, bringing one back to Bruce. “Caffeine free.” He assures Bruce, even as he makes a revolted face. “Only for you, Banner, would my workshop be polluted by decaf.”

Then he settles down behind Bruce again, setting aside his coffee mug to splay his hands wide across Bruce’s thighs again. Bruce is just boggled for a long moment, until Tony starts to speak, and then gets that the position serves two functions. To physically reassure Bruce, and also so that Bruce can’t see Tony’s face for context clues.

“The thing is,” Tony says, fingertips drilling into the big muscles of Bruce’s thighs. “We all want in your impenetrable bubble. We want to make it so that you don’t feel like you _need_ an impenetrable bubble. But no one is willing to push you.”

“Except you,” Bruce notes.

“Except me, in this one space that is totally my own. If you weren’t okay with it, you don’t need this space; you have your own lab, your own room, hell, your own library. If I’m not mistaken, you have a workshop almost identical to this one in your own lab, processing power notwithstanding. I’m sorry about that, by the way. It honestly didn’t occur to me that anyone would need anything near the processing power that I pull down here.”

“I usually don’t,” Bruce says, frowning slightly as he tries to either steer the conversation, or at least figure out in which direction it’s going. “When I did, I knew where to come.”

“Still. I’ll fix it,” Tony says absently. He slides his hands around Bruce’s ribs and then digs his thumbs into the base of his neck, right where his neck is taut from hunching. Bruce’s head drops and he makes a rumbling groan of pleasure.

Tony breathes out heavily. “See, that’s not going to help,” he says, but he doesn’t stop kneading the knots of muscle in Bruce’s neck.

“The point,” Tony finally says, a little strain in his voice that Bruce notes, but can’t make himself concerned about when the muscles in his upper back feel like taffy. “The point,” Tony repeats, “is that no one wants to force you to give anything up that you feel like you need. So you have to tell us what you need, Bruce.” He abandons Bruce’s neck and wraps his arms around his chest instead, this time hugging him so firmly that there’s no doubt that it can be anything else. “I will personally give you whatever you need. All you have to do is tell me. If I’m the only one that can touch, we can work around that, or work toward including someone else in your comfort zone. But so far I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants, and that usually works for me, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to do it with your safety or sanity tacked onto me exclusively.”

Tony doesn’t say it, but Bruce hears it anyway. They live dangerous lives. Tony wants Bruce to have someone to go to if Tony can’t be there.

“This is all a little heavy for you,” Bruce says, twisting his hands together between his spread knees, trying to be amused that Tony had been chosen to give this speech, instead of Steve or Natasha.

“Maybe,” Tony says, sounding faintly embarrassed. “But I can be serious. It’s a rare endeavor, but it does happen.”

Bruce considers this for a long moment. He still isn’t sure where this is going. He still can’t picture himself in the superhero dogpile, as much as he wants to want that.

“What is it _you_ need?” Bruce asks finally, and twists around so that he can look at Tony’s face. Tony looks startled and a little flushed, lips slightly parted. His brows twist down into an uncertain furrow, but Bruce sees him carefully spanning words together.

“I don’t need anything that you don’t want to give me,” Tony says, but Bruce can see how it slices Tony up to say it.

Realization hits Bruce harder than... well, harder than the Hulk.

“How... when did you know?” Bruce asks, breathless with fear or excitement, he honestly doesn’t know which.

Tony’s face clears, mostly, though he’s still keeping quite still. “Since I met you. Since the electric prod. I saw your face.”

Bruce breathes out once, hard. “The others?”

“Of course not,” Tony says, sounding both hurt and offended. “I don’t tell other people’s secrets.” Bruce just looks at him, and then he bobs his head a little and says, “Not something like this.” He looks almost embarassed. “I’d never out someone like that.”

Bruce feels a little like an ass. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says gently. “It was wrong of me to ask.”

“No, see, no. I want you to ask. I want you to ask whatever and whenever you want something answered. I need to know that you can do that, because I need to know how to....” Tony pauses and blinks, and then smiles a little crookedly. “How you want to be taken care of.” He removes a hand from Bruce’s thigh (which misses it immediately), and waves it around a little. “If you want to be, that is. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too. Or if you just want to come sleep in my workshop when you need the human contact, that’s all it has to be.”

Bruce looks away. Tony’s hand clasps his thigh again, and Bruce takes deep breaths, trying to be calm and to think. “Steve...” he says, and then pauses. “Do you take care of Steve?”

“Yeah, I,” Tony says. “Steve isn’t an occasional thing. He needs things to be solid.”

“Then how can you...?” Bruce says, and then can’t finish the sentence.

Tony laughs, low and warm. “I’m Tony Stark. I can take care of anyone who needs it.”

“You’re usually bitching about having to take care of anyone but yourself,” Bruce says, wryly, because he’d already known how Tony cares for people, at least in general, and while he’s surprised, yes, he finds he isn’t actually _shocked_. “And sometimes you don’t even want to do that.”

“When I don’t, someone takes care of me,” Tony says softly.

This is the longest, most sincere conversation he’s ever had with Tony, and Bruce feels like he’s not quite keeping up with it. It’s not that he hadn’t caught the carefully phrased offer. He’s just not sure how it would work.

“Let’s back it up,” Tony says after a few long seconds of silence. Bruce nods uncertainly, but Tony’s hands on his thighs have a grounding effect. “How long has it been since someone took care of you?”

“Years,” Bruce admits. He means it to come out simply, a matter of fact statement, but instead he hears the layers of pain and guilt and loneliness spanning out beneath that one word.

Tony is silent for a moment, and then he drops the lightest, sweetest press of lips against the back of Bruce’s neck, and Bruce has to blink hard to clear his vision. “I want to take care of you, Bruce,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you need to feel taken care of.”

Bruce swallows and opens his mouth, but he hardly knows how to begin. “I’m not sure I can,” he says finally. “I’m not sure if I can anymore, since the other guy.” It’s not really true; Bruce understands his triggers a lot more clearly than he ever has. But he hasn’t tested his suspicions, so it’s enough of a possibility that he feels the need to say it.

Tony sighs. “Forget about him for just a minute. I’ll take care of him, too, if it comes to that.”

Bruce lets out a harsh, shocked breath, but Tony just laughs. “Pretty sure it won’t even be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

“He could, Tony, he could pulverize you,” Bruce whispers, horrified.

“But he won’t. He likes me. You’ve seen the footage, Bruce. You know he lets me bring him here, like a lamb, after every fight. In some way... well, in some senses, I’ve already been taking care of the Hulk for months. He lets me give him the things he needs, and he tells me if he needs something else.”

“He talks to you?” Bruce asks, genuinely curious.

“All the time. Not exactly erudite, but there’s a brain there. I’m thinking of setting up some educational programming in the Hulk room. See what happens.” Tony’s fingertips press into his thighs again. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about you. Let me worry about the Hulk. I’ll take precautions. This is about you.”

Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it again. “How familiar are you with kink in general?” he finally asks, ignoring the heat in his face. It’s pointless to be embarrassed to talk about something Tony is already fully aware exists.

“I’ve either done it or had it done to me,” Tony says, sounding a little more relaxed now. “I doubt there’s anything you could ask me that I couldn’t get behind.”

“Captain America,” Bruce says, because he wants to ask, but feels like he shouldn’t.

Tony doesn’t sigh, but does say, “JARVIS, where’s Steve?”

“Hovering in the corridor outside the workshop, Sir,” JARVIS says with his usual almost-amusement. “Shall I invite him in?”

“Please,” Tony says, absently polite the way he is when he doesn’t realize anyone is paying attention.

Steve appears a moment later. He takes in their position, which is mostly unchanged since the last time he’d come in, and then tips his head a little, looking at Bruce more than Tony. Then he walks over to the bench and goes down to his knees by Tony’s foot.

“Opaque glass, JARVIS,” Tony says roughly. JARVIS doesn’t respond, but the entryway doors and windows go opaque.

“Steve, Bruce wants to ask me some questions about how you and I function together. Are you okay with him knowing things?” Tony asks, reaching down to stroke his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve’s eyelashes flutter momentarily shut in such an open gesture of pleasure that Bruce is a little embarrassed to have witnessed it. At the same time, his chest clenches with something he doesn’t want to admit to feeling. He likes Steve. He wants Steve to be happy, however it is that he does that.

“Yes,” Steve says. “You can tell Bruce anything he wants to know.” In the handful of seconds since he’d gone to his knees, his eyes have gone dazed and soft.

“Steve needs different things at different times, just like everyone. About half the time, he just needs a partner, and when that’s the case, sometimes he comes to me and sometimes he picks out of the rest of the superhero dogpile. He never does anything he doesn’t want to. But the rest of the time, Steve needs to be able to rest. He needs not to be Captain America. He needs not to be in command. He’s a little on the extreme end of the spectrum. Anyone less self-aware than he is would probably be considered something like a pet-type submissive.”

Bruce blinks down at Steve, who looks up at him with calm, steady eyes. He doesn’t expect Steve to say anything at all, but he does. “I was drowning. In a fight, I was steady. I knew who to be and what to do. But in between, I was drowning. Tony doesn’t spend all his time mauling me.” He grins a little, though he’s blushing, too. “At least part of the time, he’s teaching me how to live in the future, and how to be with other people without feeling like I’m betraying the people that I lost.” He pauses, and Bruce recognizes it as a pause. “I might outgrow the need for Tony to help me like this.” He gestures down at himself on his knees with a complete lack of self consciousness. “But if I do, I don’t think I’ll stop wanting it all together. It soothes me.”

“Does he have any pain kinks?” Bruce asks, not sure which of them he’s actually talking to, but deeply interested nonetheless.

“Minor things. Bruises. Some playful spanking. He’s a lot more willing to fuck me than most subs at his extreme tend to be. Lucky for me.” Tony is smiling down at Steve and Steve is looking up, lips curved bashfully. “Anything to add?”

Steve shakes his head. “I was in the war. I think I was hurt too much to really want that, and even if I did, the serum....” He shrugs. “It’s probably better. Except.” He flushes a deep red, and Bruce watches, fascinated. “My nipples. The needles.”

“Right,” Tony says. “We’ve only done that once. Why didn’t you say?”

Steve casts his eyes away, flushing still brighter, and Tony says, “Ah, okay. But we talked about this.”

“I know. Sorry. At first it was that I wasn’t sure. And then I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“If you don’t want to say it, just bring me the kit,” Tony says, voice smiling again. “I’m a genius here. I can figure it out.”

Steve grins, still blushing, but it’s fading now. He looks incredibly content, and Bruce admits that he’s wildly envious at his complete lack of tension.

Bruce, without pausing to try and think it through or censor it for Steve’s presence, says. “Bondage and pain. Heavy on the pain.”

“Huh,” Tony says. “Have you done this since...”

“To myself,” Bruce says. And adds, “I know, dangerous.”

“So the bondage is about giving up control?” Tony asks. Bruce nods shakily. Steve is watching him with interest. Bruce is almost glad he can’t see Tony’s face.

“The... the Hulk isn’t interested in my sex life, as far as I’ve been able to monitor, which isn’t that far as of yet. But. As long as he doesn’t feel I’m in real danger, he doesn’t come out.”

“And for him to feel like you’re not in any danger, _you_ have to feel like you’re not in any danger,” Steve says astutely. “That’s why Tony has to be the one, at least for now.” He hesitates. “When you... I mean, if you decide, and, um, you’re comfortable, could I...?”

Bruce feels himself flush, but doesn’t manage to answer before Tony breaks in.

“Tell me about the pain. Tell me what it does for you?” He sounds... well, he sounds deeply interested. It’s enough to send blood down to Bruce’s cock again. He doesn’t look at Steve, because he doesn’t want to see Steve watching him get hard.

“It, um. It anchors me. To the present. It’s almost a kind of meditation.” Bruce realizes how ridiculous that must sound, but neither Steve nor Tony comment. “It forces me to exist in the moment, doesn’t allow me to feel fear or worry or guilt. I. I don’t know why that’s how it works for me.”

“Erotic asphyxiation?” Tony asks.

Bruce thinks it’s interesting to know that that’s where Tony’s mind goes to first, but he doesn’t comment on it. Everyone has something. He says, “Yes, but. Maybe not the first few times. I trust you, but...”

“But you don’t really know my style yet, as a dominant. I get it. What else? Spankings, strappings, whippings, gags, dildos, blindfolds, play piercing, nipple clamps, cock and ball torture, orgasm denial? How much sub/Dom?

Bruce’s face feels like it’s on fire. “Yes,” he says. “Except the blindfolds. And intense sub/Dom?”

“How intense? Can I slap you in the face? Humiliate you? Keep you tied to my bed for twenty-four hours?” Tony’s voice is getting steadily deeper, and Bruce is breathing loudly enough that he can’t even try to pretend that no one else has noticed.

“Yes,” he says softly.

“Wow,” Steve says, and Bruce looks at him without pausing to think about it. Steve’s face is a little flushed, but his pupils are blown and his mouth open and a little wet. Bruce can’t help but notice the tent in his jeans. “Just,” Steve says, and rests a gentle hand on Bruce’s knee. “When you’re ready, I’d really like to see some of that.” Unexpectedly, Bruce has no urge at all to push Steve’s hand away.

Bruce flushes again, opens his mouth, and says, “Exhibitionism is also apparently okay.”

Tony laughs out loud, his breath warm against Bruce’s cheek. Steve smiles, blushing oh-so-prettily, but he leaves his hand on Bruce’s knee.

“Okay, that’s enough serious talk for the morning.” Bruce would like to object, but Tony seems aware of that, and doesn’t allow it. “No.” He strokes his hands up Bruce’s thighs and presses the heel of one hand against Bruce’s aching hard on. Bruce makes a rumble-whine kind of sound and Tony presses a little harder and drops several feather light kisses alongside his neck. But he says, “I need for you to be sure. I need you to really think about it before you make up your mind. I know responsible isn’t a word that is usually associated with me, and I’m less a Safe, Sane, and Consensual guy than I am a Risk Aware Consensual Kink guy, but both apply in this situation. We’ve negotiated some boundaries, we’ve talked enough that I’m pretty sure I can craft a strong scene for you, but I need time to do that, and you need time to really think through what you want.” His voice goes soft. “Give it a couple of days,” he says. “And hey. I promise I’m not putting you off. I have to go shopping.”

Steve stands and gives Tony a hand up without any apparent concern over their power differential. For lack of anything better to do, Bruce stands up too, twisting awkwardly to situate his erection. It makes him feel slightly better to note that all parties in the room are moving to compensate for their erections. Although the knowledge doesn’t make his own erection any easier to situate.

Tony and Steve are both looking at him, and Bruce isn’t sure what to say. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says. He omits the fact that he’ll probably be jerking off while doing so. But then he can’t quite keep himself from asking, “What are you two going to do?”

Tony glances sideways at Steve, brows arched a little. Steve says, “I’m hoping Tony will fuck me while he tells me about the kinds of things he’s going to do to you.” Tony smirks triumphantly, and Bruce can’t keep back his rueful smile. 

“Yeah, well, record that. Maybe I can use it as a bedtime story.” He means it as a joke, but knows as soon as it’s out that if he asks Jarvis for it, the recording will be ready and waiting for him when he’s ready for bed. “Oh my God,” he says. “Pretend I didn’t just say that.”

Steve just eyes him seriously, but Tony laughs. “Don’t worry. I want something a little more firmly set up than me just pounding Steve into the mattress while I blurt out all the ways I want to fuck you and tie you up and hurt you.” Bruce’s heart does a double-step in his chest, his mouth abruptly dry. He’s surprised, though he doesn’t really know why he should be, when Tony leans in and nips at his lower lip, licks at the stinging skin there, and then presses a firm but mostly chaste kiss to the same place.

Bruce wants to hear it anyway, in that way that he secretly can’t quite help but adore Tony’s ongoing, rambling monologue regarding whatever it is he’s thinking or doing, but he keeps his mouth shut this time. If he had the recording, would he listen to it?

Oh, yes. Probably repeatedly.

But he sees Tony’s point.

And he sees the way that things will be different (not better or necessarily worse, but _sweeter_ somehow), if Bruce doesn’t have that kind of a measuring stick.

He licks his lips -- his lower still stinging from Tony’s bite -- and just nods.

“Take a shower,” Tony says, hand resting briefly at the small of Bruce’s back to give him a gentle shove. “We both need to think. We can talk more later.”

Though there isn’t anything particular in Tony’s tone that makes it any different from anything else Tony says, there is some part of Bruce that hears it as the gentle order that it is, and just nods again. He brushes by Steve and Tony and makes his way out of the workshop without looking back, and it’s much harder to do than he thinks it should be.

He makes it to his floor on autopilot. Part of his mind is numb with something like surprise. The rest of it is jolting between panic and desire, and the understanding that he’s really going to do this. He could still back out, but he won’t. He thinks of Steve’s hazy, contented eyes and he knows he won’t. If he could have even a part of that, even if only for a little while. He wants it. To rest, like that.

He’s half undressed, the shower already running, before he realizes that he’s still firmly erect, and then he isn’t sure what to do about it. He’d had every intention of jerking off in the shower, but now it seems faintly wrong to actually do it.

He hasn’t made any promises yet, not out loud, but the decision is made in his own mind, where it matters.

And it’s nothing to do with his past, with knowing what dominants might expect of him, because he already knows that Tony won’t be possessive of Bruce’s orgasms like that. Or not at this point, anyway, when nothing has been decided firmly.

It’s that he wants to offer Tony a blank slate. This is what the last few years have made of Bruce, and offering that to Tony whole seems only fair.

So he doesn’t jerk off in the shower, though he does run soapy hands along the length of his cock just long enough to think of Steve kneeling at Tony’s feet. Then he just washes and scrubs at his hair and shaves more carefully than he might usually bother with.

It’s mid-morning by the time he feels more even-keeled, but even still, he can’t quite face the lab. There’s a good chance Tony will be in and out of Bruce’s lab space while he upgrades it to support a higher level of processing power, and Bruce isn’t quite ready to run into Tony again, either.

Or is maybe _too_ eager to run into him.

He’s supposed to be thinking. That’s the point of waiting. But he’s not, and he’s not going to pretend that he is. He’s sure already. He knows the risks, but he’s seen Tony with Steve. He doesn’t think there’s much risk involved.

So he pulls out his yoga mat and spends a couple of hours immersed in the physical. Contrary to popular speculation, Bruce does not do yoga to stay calm. He does yoga because it keeps him in shape and demands nothing of his mind, which lets him work out knotty problems in his head while he works muscles that don’t generally get a lot of attention with his current lifestyle.

When he’s feeling physically relaxed and limber, with just a little burn of a solid work out, he pulls out his Kindle (he has to continually hide it from Tony, who is determined to replace it with a Stark e-reader come hell or high water) and immerses himself in Auden, so long familiar that the lines and stanzas are almost hypnotic in their power to settle Bruce.

**

At ten minutes after four, Bruce puts down his Kindle and makes himself a simple dinner of sliced vegetables, hummus, and tea. He eats on his own floor often enough that he doubts he’ll get any comments on it.

He’s just set his plate on the small dining table next to his tea cup when Tony strolls into his living area as casually as if it were his own. Which, technically, Bruce guesses it is.

Tony’s never done anything like it before, though, is scrupulous about invading the privacy of the rest of them, which means he’s operating under different rules with Bruce now.

Bruce’s face heats, and he can’t quite meet Tony’s eyes. Tony stays still and silent for a moment, and then moves to stand just close enough to be slightly invasive, but far enough away that Bruce doesn’t feel trapped.

“Eating?” Tony asks.

“Not yet,” Bruce says awkwardly.

“Good. I have some questions.” Bruce waits for the questions for a little more than a minute, and then glances up to try to glean something from Tony’s face. “There you are,” Tony says, and smiles widely at him. “Is that gaze-avoidance an uncertainty or embarrassment thing, or did someone teach you to do that at some point?”

Bruce considers that. He doesn’t have a huge number of dominants in his past, but they’d all expected the averted gaze. But Tony isn’t wrong about it being a... well, an uncertainty thing, at the least. “Doms mostly expect it. I’m not sure how to treat you yet, so I’m a little uncomfortable and uncertain.”

“You don’t need to bother with the high-profile submissive behaviors,” Tony says seriously, watching Bruce’s face. “If you need or want some of them, feel free to demonstrate them and I’ll keep them in mind. But I’ve got no desire to have a man I like and respect keep his head down like he’s not every bit as worthy of my attention as I am of his.”

Bruce feels his posture unfold a little, not quite sure when he’d tensed to begin with, but he manages a smile. “Okay,” he says softly. Then, carefully, “Can I get you anything? I can make coffee.”

“Coffee would be great,” Tony says, lips quirked.

Bruce has one of the fancy, single cup Kuerig brewing systems, because he likes a variety of tea (even though he still makes ninety percent of his tea in the kettle on the stove), so it doesn’t take him more than a couple of minutes to turn back to Tony with a steaming mug of Kona.

In the time that he does, Tony has pulled another chair out from the table in a wide arc, and has repositioned Bruce’s plate and cup so that they’re at the corner of the table, within easy reach of Tony’s hand. Bruce is familiar enough with the setup not to be confused as to its purpose. He brings Tony his coffee, staying just at the edge of Tony’s space. There’s a catch at the base of his spine, but he’s not sure of himself enough for it to really heat him.

Tony takes a long swallow of his coffee and then sets it slightly aside. “I have some questions. Can your food sit for a bit, or should you eat first?”

“It could sit,” Bruce says, and then some stubborn core of honesty compels him to add, “but it will dry out. Which isn’t much of a problem. I have more of everything.”

Tony considers his face for a moment, and then motions Bruce down to his knees. It’s a curiously lackadaisical gesture, not the kind of thing he’s seen, but it’s crystal clear in meaning anyway. Bruce goes down, realizes he’s too far out of Tony’s range to feed easily (he has never eaten from the hand of a dominant; he hasn’t ever realized that he might want to) and slips forward on his knees across the carpet. “Good,” Tony says and brushes Bruce’s hair back. Bruce redirects his gaze from Tony’s crotch to Tony’s face hurriedly. “Done this?” he asks.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Willing to try?” Tony asks.

Bruce nods, blushing.

It’s awkward for the first minute or so. Bruce leans too soon or not soon enough, Tony has to experiment with the hummus to determine Bruce’s tastes, the meal wasn’t prepared to really be in bite-sized pieces, so sometimes that is a little messy. Tony solves the first problem by pressing a hand between Bruce’s shoulders and tugging him gently up against his knee. He breaks things in half to make them easier to eat, and he asks, “Less?” or “More?” regarding the hummus. The first time, Bruce opens his mouth to answer, or maybe to explain how much he likes on what and why, but Tony rests three fingertips against his lips. Bruce’s face flames, but he understands the message clearly.

Eventually, though, it’s something else. And not a simple something. It’s as delicate and lovely as a Japanese Tea Ceremony, and once his face cools, Bruce finds himself quietly enthralled by the ritual. Tony’s knee is warm and steady against his chest. Tony memorizes proportions quickly and easily, and though he doesn’t speak once he does, he murmurs soft sounds of encouragement, strokes Bruce’s hair and neck and shoulders, and his face is soft with care, eyes warm. Bruce is half hard before they’re even midway through, but it seems natural, not urgent or strange.

Bruce feels loose and easy, that pull at the base of his brain that means he’s letting go of his control, and it’s shocking how easy it is. It’s never been so easy. Bruce tries to make a mental note to think about it later, but his thoughts are such an easy sprawl that he isn’t sure he’ll remember.

Tony eventually sets the plate aside, reaching for Bruce’s tea. He’s as careful with that as he has been with everything, and Bruce finds it easy to take small, deliberate sips when the cup is tipped toward him. Tony’s other hand is cupped loosely around the back of Bruce’s neck in a way that makes Bruce’s shoulders feel loose. Tony sets the tea aside once he’s offered it to Bruce and Bruce chooses not to sip, and then uses both hands to turn Bruce slightly, so that the back of his shoulder is braced against Tony’s thigh instead of his chest.

“Well, that’s one question,” he says in a soft, fond voice that makes Bruce want to lean harder into Tony’s warmth.

It takes him a moment to find his tongue, but eventually he asks, “What question?”

“What kinds of things bring you down,” Tony says. “But you haven’t done it that way before, have you?”

Bruce shakes his head, a little appalled at how much he wants to push further into Tony’s space, partake in the comfort of that morning, trapped in Tony’s arms.

“But you’re feeling it.” It’s not a question. “Where are you sitting? Scale of zero to five, where five is completely normal.”

Bruce has to consider the question. He doesn’t have any data points other than his own past, and this is... different. Not necessarily better, because he likes other things, too. But this had been easier and he feels safe and directed. “One point eight,” he decides finally.

Tony chuckles. “Aren’t you going to be fun.” He sounds like he genuinely means it. “Scientific and specific.”

But Tony isn’t making fun, and when Bruce leans his weight slightly into Tony’s body, Tony shifts forward to accommodate him. He runs his fingers through the back of Bruce’s hair, making Bruce shiver, and then smooths it back into place. Bruce realizes that Tony’s other hand is clasped with his, fingers twined together, and has no idea when that happened. He wants to look up over his shoulder at Tony, maybe questioningly, maybe just to see what Tony’s face looks like right now, but he assumes that Tony had positioned him this way for a reason. He feels safe enough trusting in Tony’s reasoning.

“Have you ever made it lower than one point eight, right out of the gate?” Tony asks.

Bruce pauses to think again, but this time it’s easier. “Yes, but not much lower. And it wasn’t like this. This was... smooth.”

Tony grips the back of his neck lightly, as if in approval. “Good. Can you tell me what other things put you down?”

Bruce swallows, his face heating again. He presses back against Tony, and Tony tips down and kisses Bruce’s temple. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Tony says, lips brushing across Bruce’s skin. Then, as if he somehow understands the heart of the problem, he says, “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Bruce. Nothing you’ve ever done will make me think less of you.”

Bruce blinks, and it’s bizarre that this is Tony Stark, loud, brash, arrogant, egotistical, genius Tony Stark, who never talks like this to people, with this kind of patience and gentleness. Bruce has always known that Tony was more than any of those things, but this juxtaposition is enough to make him feel a little dizzy, like the surface of the world has shifted slightly beneath him.

“Why do you want to know?” Bruce asks, though he understands why, at least academically.

“Because the more I know about how it works in your mind, the better I’ll be able to direct us both. And knowing what has worked for you in the past is part of that. But, Bruce.” Tony squeezes the back of his neck again. “It’s not the only part of it. I want to know what works, but I also want to know what doesn’t, or what you’ve never tried. I may not use anything you’ve ever done. I may come up with something else entirely. But I don’t want to do that without as much information as I can get. I know you know this.” Tony’s voice is faintly chiding now. “Where are you sitting now?”

That question is so unexpected that Bruce answers it almost without thought. “Two point six.”

Tony stands up and curls his hand into Bruce’s hair. He’s walking before Bruce even changes positions. The drag of Tony’s fist in his hair is electrifyingly bright, and Bruce knows his erection is responding even as he forces himself quickly around and crawls along behind Tony to the couch.

Tony drags a large plush cushion off the end of the couch and tosses it onto the floor. He doesn’t pull Bruce onto it by the grip he still has on his hair, but he points firmly at it. Bruce can see Tony’s face through his eyelashes. He is a little flushed, but looks relaxed and unhurried. The relief that blossoms in Bruce’s chest is as electrifying as the hair pulling had been. Bruce settles himself onto the cushion, shifting around on his knees to get comfortable, but he doesn’t turn around again. He wants to see Tony’s face.

Tony apparently doesn’t have a problem with that. He settles onto the couch and pulls Bruce against one of his splayed thighs by his hair. Bruce leans gratefully into him, but he’s at eye level with Tony’s crotch, and it’s clear that Tony isn’t unaffected by the last forty minutes any more than Bruce is. He shivers and licks his lips, and then makes himself stop and looks at Tony’s face instead. Tony strokes Bruce’s hair out of his face, just a slow and gentle brush of his fingertips against Bruce’s hairline, his neck, his scalp.

“What are the surefire methods of bringing you down, Bruce?” Tony asks directly, holding Bruce’s gaze. “Bulletproof kinks.”

Bruce’s face heats again, but he half-whispers, “Bondage, pain, and humiliation.”

“What kind of intensity?”

Bruce hesitates. “I don’t have a large enough datapool for a really strong extrapolation. From experience, I think moderate bondage, intense pain, and... almost any kind of humiliation.”

Tony doesn’t say anything immediately, but his hand has gone still in Bruce’s hair. Bruce watches Tony’s cock further distort the line of his slacks, and his mouth waters. He wonders what Tony’s long term agenda is for tonight. It could be anything, or nothing. He doesn’t know Tony in this aspect.

“So light humiliation works for you as well as the harsher kind?” Tony asks. His hand is still unmoving in Bruce’s hair.

“In general,” Bruce confesses. “Some situations excluded.”

“Of course,” Tony says, and slides his hand back around to cup the back of Bruce’s neck. “And what about what doesn’t work?”

Bruce considers. “I would have said that none of the softer methods work,” he says finally. “Baths and massages have never... I just get impatient. But.” He glances up; Tony is smiling down at him.

“Hand feeding is intimate. I wouldn’t call it one of the softer methods, though I do see where you’re trying to create a line.” Tony sounds thoughtful. “And anything else? Anything that you haven’t tried that you can think of.”

Bruce gives into the urge to lean forward and rest his brow against Tony’s thigh. “I was young. And it wasn’t common. I didn’t have the luxury of being able to treat it like an experiment and sample some of everything. I didn’t have the time or money for that. I found out what I liked, and then I stuck with what I knew I liked.” He paused, and when Tony didn’t say anything, he surprises himself by admitting, “I always wanted to try needle-play on my cock.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tony asks, voice barely a murmur. Bruce can smell Tony’s cologne and soap and sweat. His cock is straining against the not-exactly-concealing fabric of his yoga pants.

“Trust,” Bruce says. And then, without meaning to at all, he says, “I love all kinds of bondage, but I really like chains and leather. The sound. And. You can hit me with almost anything. There hasn’t ever been anything that didn’t work for me.”

“Any electricity-play?” Tony asks.

“Uh, no,” Bruce says. “Just never got the chance.”

“Crossdressing?”

“Not... that I’m sure of? Women’s underwear a few times, but I’m not sure how much of that was for me and how much of it was for the dom.”

“Do you have a lot of trouble figuring out what’s good for you versus what’s good for your dom?” Tony doesn’t sound worried about it, but Bruce still has to really think about the question.

“There are things that are good for me that will always be good for me, because I’m wired that way. I’m sure there are things that won’t ever be good for me, by the same reasoning. But there’s a lot of middle ground between those extremes, and I do well in most of it as long as my partner is doing well.” He tips his face up to look at Tony for a moment. “That’s part of it. The part where I can’t tell if it’s good for me because of him or just because it is, that’s. That’s a good part for me.”

Tony nods, but he pulls on the back of Bruce’s neck, tucking his brow against Tony’s thigh again. “Where are you sitting now, Bruce?”

“Two. A little under.”

“Do you want me to take you down as far as I can right now, or do you want me to help you up?” Tony’s voice is grave.

“What do you want?” Bruce asks. The question is out of his mouth before it fully formulates in his head.

Tony’s fingers tug at his hair in reprimand. “I want to do whatever will let you spend the rest of the evening at peace, after this deeply personal conversation.”

Bruce blinks his eyes and thinks hard. “Do you still, um, that tomorrow will...?”

“It’ll give me plenty of time,” Tony assures him softly.

Bruce isn’t sure. He wants to go down deep, he wants to come, but he doesn’t want to do that and then spend the evening alone while he’s open and aching. He wants to ask Tony to stay, but is betting that he can’t, or there wouldn’t have been any discussion regarding what Bruce wants to do. He even sort of remembers something, some kind of thing for Stark Industries that Tony had whined for three days about while simultaneously trying to get Bruce to attend, too.

“Neither, then,” Bruce says finally. “I’ll take a nap on the couch. By the time I wake up, I’ll be fine.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. Eventually Bruce looks up at him. Tony is regarding him thoughtfully. “Do you like lingering in sub space?” he asks.

Bruce feels like he ought to be embarrassed, but no blushes come of the question. “Who doesn’t?” he asks. “I’m not so far down I’m frantic and needy, but I’m deep enough to stay relaxed for a while. If you just make sure no one....”

Tony nods in understanding. “They won’t come up here while you’re still vulnerable. I’ll lock down your floor.” He cocks his head. “In my experience, staying in sub space is only good while you’ve got someone to take care of you.” It’s not quite a question. Tony is letting him pick and choose as far as a response goes.

Bruce goes with the truth. “I prefer it. But I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t ever managed to go down on my own sometimes. Maybe not that far down, but enough to be soothing. I know how to maintain a good head space.” Then he smirks a little. “Except, you know, when I’m a giant green rage monster.”

Tony grins. “Yeah, if anyone ever needed some sub space,” he says. Bruce snorts. Tony bends over at the waist and kisses him, not hotly, but tenderly, another thing that seems like such a juxtaposition that Bruce’s world shifts a little more.

Tony, he could have imagined as a dominant. A capricious, demanding, sometimes downright cruel dominant, that would nevertheless be incredibly effective, because he is a super genius.

This he wouldn’t have imagined. He wonders how this will all mesh. Tony has been unfailingly gentle and careful with him all evening, and that morning, as well. But he can’t imagine that being enough for either of them in the bedroom, and he’s certain Tony knows that.

Bruce is surprised to find himself more intrigued and anticipatory than worried.

“One more question,” Tony murmurs, and kisses Bruce again.

“I will tell you anything,” Bruce says, and means it. He sees it light Tony’s eyes, as though from the inside, and Tony’s wide smile is literally beatific.

“You’re going to regret that,” Tony says, voice a low rumble, but he’s still smiling and his fingers are tangled in Bruce’s hair.

“I believe you,” Bruce agrees. He does.

Tony’s smile turns a little wolfish. “Question. Steve? Is he a yay or nay for you?”

“You mean as far as participation?” Bruce asks, a little surprised. He’d kind of just assumed that Steve would be there if Tony wanted him there, and not if Tony didn’t. Steve has... well, _dibs_ , Bruce guesses. He was there first.

“Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

“I kind of got the idea that that wasn’t up to me,” Bruce says slowly.

Tony drags Bruce’s hair back and bites down hard on Bruce’s exposed neck. Bruce makes an embarrassingly throaty sound of pleasure. Then Tony lets him go and Bruce just stares at him, mouth slightly open. That, just that, slides Bruce downward, and he feels as loose and easy as he had after having eaten from Tony’s hands.

“You have choices,” Tony tells him firmly. “You have needs that may not include Steve. Steve has options other than me, which you don’t. At least not yet. Tell me what you need, Bruce. I’m not a patient man. If you can’t cooperate with me when I want information, I will beat it out of you.” Bruce has no doubt of Tony’s sincerity.

Bruce shudders a little forward, and Tony catches him, both hands rubbing soothingly at Bruce’s shoulders and upper arms. “Tell me,” he repeats.

“I... I don’t really know. I like Steve. Having him touch me doesn’t make my skin crawl. I don’t have a problem with him watching. I can’t... I don’t know what it would be okay for him to _do_. It’s been, Tony... it’s been a _long_ time, and I can’t tell...”

“All right,” Tony says, and then pulls Bruce bodily up into his lap. Bruce is more draped over than sitting in Tony’s lap, their relative sizes taken into consideration, but Tony’s whole body is curled up and into and around him, holding him tight until Bruce’s breathing settles and he feels himself loosening within Tony’s embrace.

“You decide,” Bruce whispers. “If you want him there, I want him there.”

“Okay,” Tony murmurs. “But remember that you get to object if you want to or need to.”

“Safeword,” Bruce murmurs back.

Tony makes a humming sound. “Steve does the green, yellow, red version. But you’re going to want something more traditional, I think.”

“You pick it,” Bruce says. “If I’m gagged, I’ll tap out.”

Tony is silent for a moment. “Defenestration,” he finally says.

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” Bruce says, trying and failing not to be amused.

“If they put it on the internet, it must be true,” Tony says. He eases his grip on Bruce, and Bruce kind of twists his upper body, so they’re mostly sitting side by side on the couch with Bruce’s legs over the tops of Tony’s thighs. “Are you good?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, smiling a little.

“Good. Work in the lab tomorrow, if you want to. I fixed your processing power issue. I won’t show up there unless I’m invited.” He gives Bruce a long look. “You won’t see me. I’ll have things to do. But I’ll let you know when to show up. Okay?”

Bruce nods.

“Anything you’re worried about that you need to ask?”

“No,” Bruce says. And then changes his mind. “Mode of address?”

“I’m equally okay with Tony or sir,” Tony tells him. “But I expect some form of honorific in a scene.”

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce says, cheeks heating faintly.

“Good boy,” Tony says, sounding amused. Bruce’s cheeks heat further, and Tony pulls him into another kiss, this one longer, though still without forward intent. “I have this thing at eight. Should I stop in and check on you before I go?”

Bruce would really like to say yes. Instead he sighs, “No. I don’t need the cocktease of you in a tuxedo to keep me up all night.”

Tony laughs and levers Bruce’s legs off his lap. He stands up, and Bruce slumps down onto the comfortable couch, unwilling to watch Tony leave.

“Bruce,” Tony says.

“Tony,” Bruce says.

“No matter what, call me if you need me.” His voice is actually stern, rather than just firm, for the first time. “If you aren’t sure, that means you need me. Do you understand?”

Bruce shivers and says, “Yes, Tony.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**

If he’d had to make a guess, Bruce would have suspected that the day in the lab would be full of long, anxious expectation.

But he hadn’t actually gone in the day before, and he is still working on the transmitters, and things have piled up, so he actually finds himself moving along at a fairly good clip.

Steve drops in a little after one with a sandwich and a cup of tea. “You didn’t come out for lunch,” he explains, and moves to set the plate and cup next to Bruce, and then away again. “I won’t keep you.”

“Wait,” Bruce says. “Hey.”

Steve turns back to him, politely curious, and Bruce isn’t sure what he’d planned on saying. Then it comes to him, and while he can’t quite fling open his private space entirely, he says, “Stay and keep me company?”

Steve smiles, clearly pleased, and Bruce eats and they talk about non-Avenger business, like the best places to eat in town and the process of slowing down a chemical reaction that’s exceeded its limits. Steve doesn’t have a problem keeping up with chemistry-lite, so they talk about that, at little, and then they talk about museums that Steve has been meaning to go to, which is how Bruce ends up inviting him to go with Bruce, though he explains that it’s better for him if they go during the week, when most of the people are at work, since crowds can sometimes bother him.

Steve is so bright-eyed when he makes his way out of the lab with Bruce’s dirty dishes that Bruce wonders, not quite idly, whether or not he might be able to top him.

He doesn’t have a lot of experience with it, but Steve doesn’t seem to need much. A comfortable place, someone solid to ground him, a way to let himself let go. Bruce isn’t sure what kind of equipment Tony uses on Steve, but he’s guessing that it isn’t much. He thinks of Steve sinking to the floor onto his knees by Tony’s leg in the lab, and the way he had slipped down, just like that.

Bruce isn’t sure he wants to. At least not yet. But having Steve gentled at his feet doesn’t seem like a bad thing in any way.

He wonders if Tony has considered the idea, and thinks it’s probably likely. Tony has probably been putting scenarios together in his mind since yesterday morning. Bruce smiles a little, but lays aside whatever temptation his mind tries to fixate on.

He goes back to work and doesn’t have to force it, and realizes that, anticipation aside, he’s already accepted tonight. Not what exactly it will turn out to be, but that it will be okay. That Tony will make it okay.

**

“Dr. Banner,” JARVIS says just as Bruce is placing the last bottle of bio-transmitter into the stasis unit. “Mr. Stark requests that you attend him in his quarters.” JARVIS’ usual animation is almost entirely absent. His voice is soft and flat.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair. “ _Attend him,_ ” he thinks. He doesn’t doubt at all that that had been Tony’s exact phrase.

“Did he give a specific time frame, JARVIS?” Bruce asks.

“At your earliest immediate availability, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS reports.

Bruce would have liked to have grabbed a shower and changed clothes, but he has no trouble translating JARVIS’ response as ‘right now.’ Tony had probably had JARVIS monitoring the lab and waiting for Bruce to reach a good stopping point before mentioning anything.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Bruce says distractedly.

Now that he’s living his last few moments between his normal life and the things that are going to happen next, Bruce’s hands are shaking, and he feels a little dizzy with nerves. It seems frankly ridiculous, considering how abnormal his “normal” life is, but there it is. Add a little kinky sex to the mix, and Bruce is a delicate flower.

He washes his hands, at least, giving himself just a little time to calm down. It only works marginally, but Bruce will take it. He circles around the lab to Tony’s private elevator, slips his card through the reader, and gets in when the door opens. He hits the button for the penthouse before he has time to really think about it. He recognizes this feeling. The fear/anticipation/uncertainty. He tries to tell himself that it’s normal, but it’s been too long for it to really feel that way. It feels distantly familiar, but not normal.

“This is Tony,” he murmurs aloud. “He’s less likely to screw it up than any other dom I’ve ever had.”

He’s sure it’s true, but it doesn’t settle him. He rides the elevator upward with a slowly twisting spiral of nerves in his belly.

Tony’s private elevator opens out onto the main floor of the penthouse. Tony is leaning against the bar, waiting for him. He’s wearing black jeans and a worn t-shirt. He’s barefoot. He’s not holding a drink, either, though there are four water bottles sitting on the butcherblock beside him. He crooks two fingers at Bruce, and Bruce walks over, hoping he doesn’t look as wigged as he feels. Tony looks at him for a few silent seconds, and then says, “We could just fuck, Bruce.”

While Bruce is pretty sure that would be good, that isn’t what he wants. And if he is actually going to work himself into a place where he can be physically easy with everyone else, it’s not what he needs, either.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Okay,” Tony says easily. “Then clothes stay out here.”

Bruce thinks of objecting on the grounds that this is one of the major common areas that the team tends to congregate in, but then doesn’t. He unbuttons his shirt with unsteady hands and peels it off. He folds it and puts it on a bar stool. He bends and takes off his shoes and socks, tucking the socks inside, and nudges them under the stool where no one will trip over them. Then he buttons down his slacks and slides them off, folding them as well. He’s not wearing any underwear. Tony gives him an amused eyebrow, but doesn’t mention anything.

“I want to collar you,” Tony says instead, without preamble.

Bruce feels his brows rocket toward his hairline.

Tony pulls something out from his back pocket, a white box about five inches across and three or four deep. Bruce stares at it, mouth dry. He’s been offered collars before, but has never accepted. He’s never even worn a temporary collar. Something too intimate about it. Tony flips the lid off the box to reveal a light, silvery chain that resembles a necklace more than a collar. There’s only a single O-ring attached to it, and even it is slender enough to merely be decorative. Bruce frowns, one hand rising automatically to touch it. Tony pulls it back out of his reach. “Watch,” he says.

Bruce lets his hands fall, and watches. Tony tugs the fragile-looking links free of the box without seeming to take any kind of special care with them. He holds the collar up, so that Bruce can see that it’s probably about the right size for his neck, but there doesn’t seem to be a clasp or buckle to open it with. Tony strings it between the middle fingers of both hands and pulls them apart.

The silvery metal stretches steadily, silently, until Tony’s arms are fully extended. He moves his hands together again and catches the O-ring in his hand. He twists a thumb and finger, as though snapping, and the O-ring spreads out like a magician’s trick, leaving several in its place.

“I’m not absolutely positive that the Hulk can’t break it, but I’m close. More importantly, you won’t be able to lose it during a transformation. It’ll just grow with you. And it can be worn as something decorative. You won’t have to walk around with something that’s obviously a collar around your throat.” Tony is silent for a moment. “You don’t have to, Bruce; I’ll take care of you with or without the collar. But I want you to.”

“For...” Bruce says, and then clears his throat. “For all the usual reasons?”

Tony looks a little pained. “I’d like to think I’m above most of the possessive and petty bullshit, but.” He cups the O-ring in his hand and it snicks back together into one ring. “Yeah,” he says finally. “All the good reasons, too.” He holds Bruce’s gaze for a few seconds. “For all the reasons that are supposed to comfort you and make you feel protected and cared for. But also because I want my mark on you. I don’t want anyone else thinking they can have you.”

“But no lock. I can take it off anytime I want,” Bruce points out.

“I want you to wear it because you want to wear it. If you ever don’t want to, I want you to be able to take it off.”

“What if I don’t want to be able to take it off?” Bruce whispers.

Tony’s smile is slow and real and warms Bruce to his toes. “Then you have to choose it every day, Bruce.” But he pulls something from the box and drops it into Bruce’s hand. “You only wear the lock during a scene. Our lives are too crazy otherwise. But you can choose the lock any time someone is with you that can take it off.”

“Who?” Bruce asks.

“Right now, Steve and I. I’ll want to key the whole team to it eventually, in case of an emergency.” Tony looks a little worried, but Bruce is nodding. It makes sense. And even if he wanted to hide what he and Tony are doing, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to. Not with the collar. And he _wants_ Tony’s collar.

Bruce steps in a little bit and sinks down to his knees. His cock is an aching presence between his thighs, but he ignores it. Tony brushes his hair out of his face and murmurs, “You’re so good, Bruce. Have you ever worn a collar?”

“No, Tony,” Bruce says, voice catching unsteadily. Tony’s hand fists in his hair for a few seconds and Tony breathes out something wordless, but Bruce thinks it sounds relieved.

Then Tony is tipping his head back, and Bruce watches him pull the silvery circle open and slip it over his head. Tony smoothes it into place around his neck. It’s cool and a little slick. Bruce wonders what it’s made of.

Tony, as though reading his mind, says, “I’ll show you how I made it later,” and runs his fingers through Bruce’s hair. He hooks his finger into the O-ring for a moment, and then opens his hand, waiting. Bruce puts the thin mechanism of the lock into it, and a moment later Tony is clicking it into place at the back of Bruce’s neck. Tony’s tugs at the O-ring again, and this time it forces Bruce’s head back. Bruce inhales shakily, and Tony looks both soft and fierce.

“Next time you come up the elevator in nothing but my collar,” Tony says, quietly, but with an unmistakable edge to it.

Bruce chokes on something that might have been an objection or might have just been a lust sound.

“Are you ashamed?” Tony asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s actually worried about it. “Don’t want the rest of them to see?”

Bruce’s throat is so dry. “Not ashamed,” he says hoarsely. “Just... their reactions.”

“Aren’t your problem,” Tony says matter-of-factly. “They’re mine. Right?”

And Tony _is_ right. Bruce had handed over responsibility for things like that when he’d let Tony slip the collar around his neck. Bruce can only nod, though he feels like his face is on fire.

“Good,” Tony says. “Come on then.” He flicks a fingernail against the O-ring, which sets off a high pitched ping, and turns and walks across the main area of the room and toward the bedroom.

Bruce has been in Tony’s bedroom a handful of times, most of them while putting an exhausted and belligerent Tony to bed whether he wanted to go or not. It doesn’t look any different. The lighting is low but not dim, the bed is still big enough for at least five, and the furniture is still pale, sleek wood.

“Steve?” Tony calls once they’re inside.

Steve pops his head out of what looks like it once might have been a walk-in closet. Now the clothes are all gone, though the rods are still there. Inside is a pallet of soft cushions and a rumpled up comforter. There’s an ottoman off to one side, on which there is a drink, a sandwich, and a tablet computer. Up against the opposite wall, there are stacks and stacks of books. Closer to the door is a pile of sketchbooks and a large, open wooden box filled with charcoal, colored pencils, pastels and tubes of paint. Steve currently has a large drawing pad folded over his curled knees, and has a smear of charcoal across one cheek bone. He looks up at them, and says, “Oh.”

His eyes drag over Bruce’s body -- admiration (Bruce blushes) and an artists eye -- and come to rest on the collar unerringly. “Oh,” he says again, and then he’s dragging the charcoal across the paper, eyes flitting back and forth from the collar to the page. Tony just stands there and waits, so Bruce waits, too. After only a couple of minutes, Steve grins and turns the pad to show them the drawing. It’s a nude of Bruce, and a fairly accurate one since Bruce is pretty sure Steve has never seen him nude, but Bruce himself is mostly outline and shadow. The collar is the true subject of the drawing, done in bold sweeps and curved lines. “I’ll do a better one, if you’ll model,” he says. “Something that keeps you in the forefront, too.”

“It’s amazing,” Bruce says, because it is, and because Steve looks so happy.

Tony curls his fingers and Steve untangles himself from the comforter and crawls to Tony’s feet. “May I have it?” Tony asks, his hand in Steve’s hair.

“Of course,” Steve says easily, turning his face to press it into Tony’s hand.

“This is Steve’s room,” Tony says, turning to look at Bruce. “You won’t go inside unless you’re invited. I don’t go in at all.”

There are pictures on the walls, Bruce sees. The whole team, some ensemble, but mostly individual. Many of them are nudes or semi-nudes. Bruce wonders whether Steve keeps them here because he isn’t sure the individuals represented wouldn’t appreciate them, or if Steve just keeps them here because this is his safe space, and he wants to be surrounded by the faces and bodies of those he loves in his safe space.

“You’re invited any time you need me,” Steve tells Bruce sincerely. Tony’s brows arch a little, but he makes no objection at the open invitation.

“Steve’s going to stay in his room tonight. The bedroom itself is soundproof, but the walls between the main room and the smaller rooms aren’t. He’ll be able to hear everything. Okay?” Tony is looking at Bruce expectantly.

“Okay,” Bruce says, though he thinks that might be a little unfair on Steve’s behalf.

Steve, smiling, gestures to the tablet. “I can have the feed if I want it,” he tells Bruce. “I’m not sure I do. Just... I mean, I think just _hearing_ will be....”

“Okay,” Bruce repeats gently, because he gets that, too.

Tony bends and kisses Steve briefly, and then shoos him back inside. Steve goes willingly enough, though he glances over his shoulder (while Bruce tries not to ogle his truly spectacular ass) at Bruce and says, “Have fun.”

Tony closes the door. He looks at Bruce for a moment, as if expecting questions. Bruce has two, but he’s not going to ask them anywhere near Steve’s door.

Tony leads him over to the main doorway again, pointing down. “Do you see that?”

Bruce does. It’s a different colored stripe in the carpet that crosses the room on the diagonal, about four feet inside the door.

“That’s the point at which you should be on your knees,” Tony says. “For future reference, I’ll react badly to lapses.”

Bruce’s heart thumps in his chest, but he can’t think of anything to do but drop to his knees where he’s standing. Tony’s fingers plunge into his hair and pull his face against his thigh, the denim soft and worn against his cheek.

“Your glasses,” Tony says. “How much do you need them to see?”

“They’re computer glasses,” Bruce says. “I need them for very close work.”

“So, if I’m five or six inches from your face, you can see me fine?” Tony asks.

“I can see you fairly clearly at any distance,” Bruce says. “I just lose very fine detail if I’m very close. So. For example. If I wanted to suck your cock, and I wanted a detailed look at what I was putting in my mouth, I’d want my glasses on at least until my mouth came into play.”

“Good,” Tony says, and plucks them off Bruce’s face. He takes them to an end table by the bed and sets them down. “Come on,” he says. “You follow me when I move unless I tell you to stay.”

Bruce stretches out onto his hands and knees and crawls, stomach twisting, over to Tony.

“You don’t have a room,” Tony says. Which had been one of the questions he’d had for Tony but hadn’t asked. “You don’t need a safe space like that. This whole room will be a safe space for you. Your own floor will be a safe space for you. You don’t need hours or days of rest. Well.” Tony smirks. “Maybe hours.”

Bruce smiles a little, face heating faintly.

“My point is, Steve needs a space of his own, and his floor isn’t enough.”

“He needs a place that’s policed,” Bruce says, understanding completely.

“Exactly,” Tony agrees.

“He doesn’t want a collar?” Bruce asks, which had been the other question he hadn’t asked.

Tony sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls Bruce forward between his thighs. “I haven’t offered him one,” he says seriously. “I’m not Steve’s dom. Not exactly. I’m merely providing something like a halfway-house with perks for him. When he stops feeling so divided, he won’t need this anymore. And I can already see it happening. He may hang around awhile because this soothes him, but I’m willing to bet he’ll find someone else to soothe him once he realizes that he can.”

Bruce’s hand creeps up to touch his collar. He isn’t sure what he wants to ask or know.

“I want to keep you,” Tony says, fisting his hand lightly in Bruce’s hair. “I’ve never collared anyone. I’ve been working on an effective collar for you for months.” Tony pulls his hair lightly. “Don’t confuse what I have with Steve with what I want with you. Don’t worry about hurting Steve. He understands the terms of our agreement, and he understands that you’re not the same.”

Bruce looks away, uncertain and flushed, his belly twisting with desire and fear. Tony pulls his head back by the hair again, this time hard enough to make Bruce’s eyes sting, and he doesn’t let up. He just watches Bruce’s face, lips twisted into a faint sneer, until tears start to trickle out of the corners of Bruce’s eyes.

Like the tears are a release, Bruce feels himself unfolding physically, and Tony’s hand eases in his hair. “I don’t like it when you don’t look at me. I don’t want you hiding from me.”

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce says, feeling the sincerity of it bubble up from beneath his breastbone. It’s a feeling he’s almost forgotten, and it makes him hitch in a breath.

“Good boy,” Tony murmurs. “Now. Do you want a shower?”

Bruce struggles with the question. He doesn’t want to interrupt this when it’s just started. But he did work in the lab all day.

“Never mind,” Tony says. “You smell great.” He tips his face down into Bruce’s neck and inhales deeply. “We’ll shower later.”

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce agrees, and gets a little thrill out of the way that Tony’s lips quirk and his eyes glitter. That’s why he isn’t even remotely expecting it when Tony draws back and slaps him hard across the left cheek. Bruce’s left eye waters as light flashes behind it, and he would have fallen backward except that Tony catches him and holds him upright. Bruce’s face is hot; he can feel the way that the bruise will come up on it during the night, and his balls twist with lust. Incidental thought drifts out of his mind. He looks up at Tony with no idea what to expect, and feels the loose thrill of it drag across his skin.

He can feel his whole body shuddering, and Tony’s dragging his fingers through Bruce’s hair as though Bruce is a dog in need of comfort, but is studying Bruce’s cheek even as he does it. “Good,” Tony says roughly. “Where are you?”

Bruce has to think for a moment to figure out what Tony is talking about, and then manages to say, “Two point three, Tony.”

“Good,” Tony says. “Stay right there.”

Bruce does, wavering on his knees a little, forcing him to keep his hand away from his face, when all he wants is to explore the extent of the soreness with his fingertips.

Tony walks to another door, this one on the other side of the bed, and goes into what looks like another walk in closet.

This one, though, is wide, rather than deep, and Bruce knows what it is within a moment. Only Tony Stark would have a fold out kink closet. Tony opens a couple of drawers built into the doors, pockets something, shuffles through a series of lengths of leather hanging from hooks on the opposite door, picks one that he likes and tucks the end of it into his pocket. Then he’s bending down, and Bruce can’t see what he’s getting, but he can hear the clank and rattle of metal.

Bruce bites down on his cheek and wonders if he should wipe the precome off his thigh, or if Tony would be offended.

Tony comes back around the bed with a wide metal bar and a series of chains and manacles, which he tosses carelessly on the end of the bed. “Okay, Bruce,” he says. “Sit up nice and tall.”

Bruce straightens his back and pulls back his shoulders, and Tony pulls something small and bright out of his pocket. It’s too small for Bruce to immediately identify, but then Tony is sitting on the edge of the bed again, one hand cupped around whatever he’s holding, the other pinching Bruce’s nipple.

Bruce says nothing, though he can take a lot more, and then thinks nothing, because Tony was apparently just working up to it. Tony pinches and scratches until Bruce lets out a soft, cracked sound, and then bends to bite down on Bruce’s nipple. Bruce hisses, arching his back, and Tony reaches down between them without looking and delivers a stinging slap to Bruce’s erection. Bruce shouts out something garbled that isn’t a protest, and Tony says, “Shh,” and kisses Bruce’s mouth, the same hand that had slapped his cock now cupped around his jaw. Bruce kisses back frantically, but Tony forces him to slow down and then eventually to give over control of the kiss entirely. Tony bites at him with careful force until Bruce’s lips feel sore and swollen, and then Tony is closing the cool, biting jaws of a nipple clamp around the nipple he had been abusing. Bruce sighs into Tony’s mouth even as tears prickle at his eyes. Tony breaks away from the kiss to press his mouth just below Bruce’s ear.

“You were made for this, Bruce. I knew it as soon as I saw your face. You jumped, but you weren’t surprised. You were aching there, just for a second. Just long enough for me to see. And I knew it must have been a long time since someone had used your body the way it’s meant to be used. That no one had taken you over and owned you the way that you needed, and I wanted to do that for you, Bruce. I’ve wanted to for _months_.”

Bruce shudders against Tony, breathless and so aroused he hurts with it, while the prickle of humiliation his brain insists that he feels makes him quiver.

“But I didn’t, because it would never work until _you_ knew that you needed it. Until you knew that I could give it to you. So I waited until you were mostly used to me, and until you were tired and yearning, and I won’t lie to you, I manipulated you carefully along until you were here, Bruce, until you’re right where you are. And now I’m going to give you what you really need, all the things that strip away your masks and your fears, I’m going to twist into your sense of self and use you all the ways I’ve been thinking of using you, and, Bruce, it’s going to be so good, I promise you. All you have to do is put yourself into my hands. You know you want to let me. Tell me yes.”

“Yes,” Bruce whispers hoarsely. “Tony, sir, _yes_!”

Tony snaps the other nipple clamp onto him with a sharp sound, and Bruce jerks and shakes, but manages not to cry out.

“Where are you at, Bruce?” Tony asks. He’s reaching into his pocket again. Bruce forces himself not to look at what he’s getting out.

“One point three,” Bruce says, and Tony slaps him again, not as hard, but across the same cheek. Bruce chokes on what wants to be a cry and corrects himself. “One point one, Tony.”

Tony cups his sore cheek. “Genius,” he says fondly. He stands up and turns slightly. “Bruce, I’m either going to strap the hell out of you or I’m going to fuck you absolutely raw.” He glances down and sees Bruce already looking up at him, and seems pleased. “Do you have an opinion?”

Bruce struggles for a few seconds, and then realizes that Tony had never said that Bruce couldn’t ask questions. “Does it have to be one or the other, Tony?”

“This is your first time in a long time,” Tony says.

Which was not a no.

“I remember my safeword, Tony,” Bruce murmurs shakily. He doesn’t know how far he can push Tony yet. He isn’t sure of the ways which that they fit.

“If I agree, I’ll strap you raw before I fuck you,” Tony says, his tone mild, but it’s clearly a warning.

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce agrees.

Tony crouches down beside Bruce and shows him a leather cockring. Bruce closes his eyes, his breathing ragged, and bows his head. Tony takes this as acquiescence (which it is, of course), and briskly slides the leather up under his balls and buckles it around his cock. “Some people can still come. You?”

Bruce pauses to look at Tony. “Not exactly. Not entirely. I’ve come dry before, but not frequently, and not in a long time.”

Tony nods. “If you can, don’t try to stop yourself. Let your body do what it wants to do. I won’t punish you for something that you have no control over.” Then Tony tips his head and looks thoughtful. “No, strike that. Sometimes I probably will. But this time I won’t.”

Bruce smiles a little, because yes, he can see Tony doing that, but he just says, “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony smiles at him. “Take a look at this,” he says, standing and pulling the length of leather out of his pocket. There’s a loop at the end for Tony’s hand. Otherwise its just leather, about three inches wide, maybe half an inch thick. “I know you said anything. I want you to tell me if there’s something better. We can look in the kit, if you want to.”

“Whatever you like, Tony,” Bruce says, and means it. He doesn’t want to pick. He hopes that at some point they’ll have tried everything in the kit, and then maybe Bruce will occasionally have an opinion. But mostly he doesn’t want to pick.

“Up on the bed,” Tony says, tugging at Bruce’s hair as Bruce half-stands to get up on the huge bed. It’s tall as well as wide. Bruce suspects it’s so that Tony can stand up and fuck if he feels like it. “There’s a bar at the bottom of the headboard, under the pillows.” Tony plucks two fluffy pillows out of the way to reveal the metal bar. He moves them down a bit, for Bruce’s chest to rest on, and says, “Both hands. Make sure you’re not overextended.”

With the pillows under his chest, Bruce’s cock isn’t touching the bedding, even when he reaches up and catches the bar with his hands spread a comfortable and stable distance apart. The pressure on the nipple clamps is painful, but not terrible, though Bruce knows they’ll get worse. Metal clinks from the foot of the bed, and then Tony is clamping manacles around his wrists. They’re cloth lined inside, but otherwise all made of metal, but something lighter than steel. One of Tony’s alloys Bruce guesses. Tony clips one manacle onto a bolt attached to the bar and then leans across Bruce’s back to attach the other one.

Bruce’s palms are sweaty, so the bolts are good. If he slips, the cuff won’t slide far, and the cuffs are wide enough and snug enough not to jerk around on his wrists. Bruce stares at the way his forearms twist and bunch above the metal of the cuffs, entranced, aroused, and Tony strokes a hand down his back as though to calm him.

“Knees up under you a little further,” Tony directs, and Bruce drags his knees up. Tony clamps a cuff just above his left knee, drops a kiss onto the back of his right knee, and then cuffs that one as well. “Spread,” Tony says roughly, and Bruce’s whole body seems to want to liquefy at the command. Tony’s hands widen his stance, and then he’s clipping one cuff to a spreader bar. Bruce can feel himself on the verge of hyperventilating as Tony clips the other in place.

Bruce is effectively immobilized. He tries to breathe deeply, but can’t quite manage it.

“Please,” he says, without having meant to say anything. “Tony, please.”

“Just one more thing,” Tony tells him, stroking his thigh gently. Bruce can’t tell what he’s doing at all, just that it’s something between his thighs that is playing havoc with his cock -- not quite touching, just nudging, pushing -- and then realizes it’s a thick leather sack slipped over his balls and knotted loosely around his cock. To keep them from getting strapped by accident.

Bruce can’t quite decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but he knows that this is why he needs a dom to begin with. His better judgment starts to erode after a certain point. The idea of a sharp bite of leather against his balls makes Bruce want to groan. The actuality of having bruised balls for a week is another matter entirely.

Tony is abruptly beside the bed, in Bruce’s line of sight. Bruce looks longingly at him. Tony is flushed, the ridge of his cock visible through his jeans. He’s looking Bruce over with fierce and possessive eyes. Bruce wants to be on his knees so he can kiss Tony’s ankles and feet while Tony looks at him like that. “No gag,” is all he says finally, and then vanishes out of Bruce’s line of sight.

“Where are you sitting?” Tony says from somewhere that Bruce can’t see him.

“Point eight, Tony,” Bruce says, though genius or not, he isn’t sure any longer. He’s down deep, though. Deep enough to be desperate.

He hears the whistle of the strap before he feels it; it lands across the middle of his back, a splash of exquisite agony, and Bruce cries out in surprise more than pain.

“You can do better,” Tony says harshly, and when the next strike falls, Bruce bites at his lip to keep back any sound.

Tony gives him another and another, not all that hard, but each hard enough to make Bruce’s cock jerk and his belly twist, even though he’s pretty sure that Tony is just working out his arm, isn’t even really trying yet.

Then two more directly across his ass, and Bruce yells and bucks half-flinching, and Tony says, “No,” and lays another two directly on top of them. Bruce whines, face already wet, and Tony sidearms the belt across the backs of his thighs, more than five, but Bruce loses count and doesn’t know how many more. He’s crying out with every strike now, and Tony isn’t reprimanding him, so he doesn’t try to keep it back (he thinks, briefly, of Steve, listening). Tony moves and straps him across his shoulders until Bruce’s ragged cries turn into actual sobs.

“Where are you sitting, Bruce?” Tony demands.

“Perfect,” Bruce says. “Please, Tony,” and Tony goes back to the middle of his back and works his way down, cautious blows across his lower back, viciously stinging at his hips, and so hard across his ass that Bruce merely grates out helpless noises of pain and encouragement.

When Tony moves back to his thighs, Bruce groans helplessly, and then the strap barely taps the back of his balls -- Tony had to have done it on purpose -- and Bruce wails, his cock jerking, and Bruce can feel his orgasm both happening and not happening, all the torturous pleasure of having his cock bound, without any of the relief of being able to come. It hurts, it’s cuttingly painful, but it’s so good, so hard, he’s so hard, his balls aching and clenching helplessly. “Good,” Tony whispers gruffly. “Good, boy.”

Bruce presses his face against his own biceps and sobs, he wants, he needs, his body is on fire, his throat is raw and his skin is crawling with desperation, and when the bed shifts under what must be Tony’s weight, his sobs turn to half-articulated pleas, gibberish-talk, some kind of sex-addled supplication.

Tony runs his hands firmly along the hot welts across his thighs, and Bruce does all that he can to press back into those hands.

“God, look at you,” Tony says, and grasps the cheeks of Bruce’s ass firmly. Bruce whines but doesn’t try to pull away, and Tony spreads him and examines his hole. “I can’t fucking believe I’m finally going to get to fuck you, Bruce,” Tony says almost conversationally. “Knees a little further up, that’s good, just like that,” Tony says, pressing lightly at the backs of Bruce’s thighs. “Tell me what kind of prep you need.”

Bruce hasn’t seen Tony’s cock yet, in all actuality, so that’s a tough call to make. But he says, “Two fingers,” anyway, because he wants to really feel it while Tony works it into him.

Tony’s runs his hands over Bruce’s welted hips and back, and doesn’t say anything for a while. Bruce’s mind clears enough that he realizes that Tony must have gotten naked at some point, because he can feel Tony’s bare skin touching his in places. Tony leans over his back and bites gently at some of the more painful welts, and Bruce moans helplessly. Then Tony leans back and slaps Bruce’s ass with the hard palm of his right hand. Bruce yelps out a cry, and then Tony does it again.

“You’re smarter than this,” Tony says, and Bruce retraces his speech.

“Two fingers, sir,” he wrenches out, shuddering and pulled precisely between pain and desire, stretched on that thin and perfect wire.

There is a snap and Bruce tries to keep still, tries not to do anything that might slow down what’s going to happen, but Tony just prises his cheeks apart again to examine his hole. After what feels like forever, he slides a slick finger across Bruce’s hole, a caress without pressure, and Bruce wants to cry, he wants it so badly.

“So you’re telling me you haven’t been fucked in years, and you can take it on two fingers,” Tony says. It doesn’t sound like a question.

“Want it on two fingers, Tony,” Bruce whispers. One of Tony’s hands reaches up high enough to brush through Bruce’s hair. “Please,” Bruce adds.

“Three fingers and I take the cock ring off you. Two fingers and I leave it on,” Tony says a little hoarsely.

Bruce’s body clenches with need, but. “Two fingers, Tony,” he repeats.

“God, Bruce,” Tony says thickly, and rakes his short fingernails across both cheeks of Bruce’s ass. Bruce lets out a rough cry, and Tony repeats. “God!”

Then he’s leaning over Bruce’s whole body, front pressed up against Bruce’s aching back. Tony’s cock is resting at the small of Bruce’s back, thick and long and hot against his abused skin, and Bruce shudders just at that, but Tony is also brushing Bruce’s sweaty hair out of his face, pressing a bottle of water with a straw in it against Bruce’s lips. Bruce drinks thirstily, and Tony murmurs, “It should worry you how much I want to hurt you. The way you scream, Bruce. The way you don’t fight me, even with all your muscles bunched and tense under your skin. The way you shake. So perfect. And just asking me for it. You know two isn’t enough, but you’d rather have me hurt you with my cock than have an orgasm.” Tony bites at the line of Bruce’s jaw. “Want that so bad, Bruce. Want you to know. Want that like I can’t even begin to tell you. But you’re going to take however many fingers I say you’ll take, and you’ll accept that it’s my decision to make. Understand?”

“Yes, Tony,” Bruce says, throat tight with an uncertain blend of disappointment and pride and acceptance.

“Good boy,” Tony says, and slides all the way back down Bruce’s back, waking every inch of his stinging skin.

As if to make up for it, Tony doesn’t even hesitate when he presses one finger into Bruce, slick with lube, but also bright-hot and unexpected. Tony’s hands are hard-edged and callused, pressing into him with a total lack of gentleness. He strokes and twists, but there’s not enough lube, and Bruce is pretty sure Tony is making a small concession. It doesn’t matter though. As soon as the finger breaches him, Bruce is blown back out of his mind, pushing back and whining, too needy to be stopped by Tony’s other hand on his ass cheek, rough against his abraded skin. And he can hear Tony breathing, can hear it as clearly as he can hear his own panting breaths, and Bruce wants to make it better, make it harder, make it harsh so that he knows Tony’s happy. He wants Tony’s cock, he wants to feel it, he wants every inch, he wants Tony to use him, he wants Tony to use Bruce’s hole for his own pleasure, wants it now, wants it _any_ time Tony wants it, and he can feel the collar against the hot skin of his neck.

Tony presses another finger inside, more lube this time, but still a stretch-burn, magnified when Tony twists his wrist and scissors his fingers, and Bruce is groaning and pushing back, flashes of pain from his battered ass that he needs almost as much as the brush of Tony’s knuckles and the quick push of Tony fucking him hard with two fingers, pistoning them into him so that Bruce shudders. He wants to beg and only doesn’t because Tony had already made it clear, so he lets his body beg for him, arches his back, jerks back into Tony’s hand and onto his fingers, keens when Tony lets out a little snarl of frustration. Tony’s breathing like he’s been running for hours, and then there is a third finger, and Bruce is a little disappointed, but it seems like there’s barely any more lube, and they’re wide and hard and harsh, and Bruce’s groans slip upward into moans, begging sounds, senseless without words, but Bruce can’t think enough to add words, he is all pain and desperation and want, want, want.

He cries out a wordless negative when Tony pulls away, but Tony catches him by the hair and jerks his head back, morphing the sound into a whine. Then the slick head of Tony’s cock is pressing against Bruce’s ass, and Bruce begs, “Yes, please, yes, please, Tony, need it, yes,” and Tony had slicked up liberally, but it hardly matters since his cock is so much more, wider and harder and hotter than fingers. Tony drags Bruce back onto his cock by the hair while Bruce whines deep in his throat, pleasure and pain and everything and yes, and then Tony shoves the hand in Bruce’s hair down between his shoulder blades, forcing his chest down against the pillows. The nipple clamps are twin points of agony, only eclipsed when Tony jerks out all the way, fast and harsh.

Bruce chokes out a sob, shivering with want and pain and humiliation, and then Tony is shoving in again, hard and all at once, and saying, “Bruce, yes, that’s it, let me have that ass,” his voice a total wreck that writhes in the pit of Bruce’s belly.

“Anything, Tony, please,” Bruce chokes out, and Tony jerks back and then slams into Bruce again, so rough that Bruce groans, so good that he clenches down on Tony’s cock, and Tony chokes out Bruce’s name. Bruce shudders at the sound, needy, wanting it again, and he knows how to work a man’s cock, he goes easy for Tony when he pushes in and clenches down desperately when he pulls back, rocking back as much as he can, his cock aching, the nipple clamps vicious now, loving all of it, giving all of it to Tony until Tony is driving into him with a vicious, twisting motion that has Bruce mewling, strung out between pain and pleasure this time, still desperate to come, but past it, now, only caring that Tony’s breath is coming in short, harsh gasps and that he’s dragging Bruce onto his cock as though Bruce’s body is merely a complex way for Tony to jerk off, and the idea of that is so piercingly erotic that Bruce shudders and shudders, and then screams in shock when Tony’s hand stabs down between them and rips the cockring off of Bruce. Bruce screams again, body convulsing, Tony’s hands clawing at his ass cheeks, the pain and pleasure so acute that Bruce is whimpering and coming and still desperately trying to shove back onto Tony.

“God,” Tony growls. “God, Bruce, fuck!” Tony is vibrating against Bruce, his shudders almost as strong as Bruce’s, and he thrusts so hard that he’s snarling with the effort, and then he’s groaning, rough and raw, hips stuttering, and is growling out, “Bruce, yes, so good, you’re perfect, the way you take it, perfect, you love me using you, good boy, Bruce, God, so good.”

Bruce shudders through something close to another orgasm, something like a backlash, and Tony moans, hips still pressing hard against Bruce’s ass. “Good,” Tony whispers, voice cracked. “Good, Bruce. Yes.”

He works his hands up under Bruce’s chest and removes the clamps by feel, almost gently. Bruce cries out softly as his nipples throb with increased bloodflow, and Tony kisses Bruce’s shoulders and upper back. His hands move down to untie the sack from Bruce’s balls, and Bruce groans, so hypersensitive that he chokes into actual tears, not like the desperate sobs from before, but weary tears, everything so raw, his skin transparent, his mind cracked open.

Tony’s hands are so quick and competent that Bruce almost doesn’t notice when the spreader falls away, and then Tony’s hands are unclipping his wrists from the bar, and Bruce collapses downward into a helpless sprawl, half Tony’s weight, half exhaustion. He rolls when Tony’s hands urge him over, and then he’s fitted up tight against Tony’s chest.

Bruce fists a hand around Tony’s forearm and mashes his face against Tony’s sweaty chest, trying to settle past the tears and the gasping, desperate sounds that he’s making. Tony drags him in even closer somehow, twists their legs together, kisses Bruce’s cheeks and mouth and temple, brushing his sweaty hair away from his face, murmuring softly enough that Bruce can only make out some of the words amidst the noise that he’s making himself, but they’re good words, “Bruce,” and “perfect,” and “so tight,” and “gorgeous cock,” and low and husky, “I hope you always cry after,” which is what it takes, apparently, to bring Bruce to some level of ease. His tears taper off and he can feel every line of every welt on his body, and he thinks about asking Tony to strap his front next time, and he thinks about asking Tony if Bruce can ride him, and he takes deep breaths of Tony’s scent, musky and sharp with sweat, still traces of his cologne, and then Tony is rocking him very slightly, just a gentle sway of their bodies, and Bruce finally relaxes entirely into Tony’s grasp and feels the lightness in his chest and the roadrashed feel of his mind and the heaviness of his body, and he’s perfect, he’s so sore he can’t help but twist a little to brush against the welts, and Tony is perfect, running a hand through Bruce’s hair, and then continuing all the way down Bruce’s back to his ass, massaging one cheek while Bruce’s breath stutters and hitches.

“Where are you, Bruce?” Tony asks after a while, barely a breath of sound.

“Ground zero,” Bruce says, and isn’t surprised at how his voice sounds slurred and drugged. “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony’s arm tightens around him. “I want to keep you like this forever,” Tony murmurs. “I’m going to take some time. Pepper has to understand for this.” He sounds feverishly determined, and Bruce imagines this, but for days, for a week, for long enough for both of them to really believe that it’s real.

“Touch my collar,” Bruce begs, surprising himself, but Tony doesn’t hesitate. He traces his fingers along the metal for several seconds, and then hooks a gentle finger into the O-ring and just holds it there, just enough pressure for it to feel like Bruce is being tugged softly toward Tony. “Thank you, Tony,” Bruce says thickly.

Tony doesn’t answer, but asks, “Do you need a drink? What do you need?”

“No, I’m good. Just. Don’t leave me alone yet, Tony.”

“I doubt I’m ever leaving you alone again,” Tony says, a smirk in his voice, but with a rougher, more serious note beneath it. “Sleep here with me,” he orders. Then, more carefully, “You can keep your floor. I know you need space. But stay with me at night.”

Bruce’s chest is so tight he chokes a little. “Yes, Tony,” he whispers.

“Good,” Tony says. “Good, Bruce. There’s one more thing I want from you tonight.” Then he laughs. “What a lie. I can think of dozens of things I want from you right now, but in a few minutes I’m going to take you and see how far down I can keep you while I clean you up and take care of those welts. But first, I want something else.” Tony reaches down between Bruce’s thigh and takes his cock into his hand. Bruce sighs a little, but he’s not over sensitive any more, and is actually pretty close to half-hard. His refractory period isn’t as quick as a teenagers, but it’s better than average. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s a holdover from the experiment, like his general endurance, or if he’s just lucky. But he doesn’t even move to stop Tony from stroking down the length of his shaft for a series of dreamy timeless moments, until he’s hard again, and rolling over just enough to feel the sheets brush harshly against one side of his back. “You want over?” Tony murmurs, and Bruce bites his lip, zing of humiliation, but nods.

Tony shifts them around until Bruce is splayed on his back, twisting into the burn of the sheets while Tony keeps jerking him off, slow and silent, asking nothing of him, but taking anyway, so that Bruce wants painfully to please him. He doesn’t ask, because he thinks if Tony had wanted to tell him, he would have already, but he looks at Tony, watches him, shivers at the way Tony’s gaze rakes over his body, Tony’s face, normally open and full of intelligence and laughter and life, a graven image, all possession and intensity.

Finally Tony grabs for Bruce’s hand, the cuff still wrapped around the wrist, and closes Bruce’s fingers around Bruce’s cock. “Let me see,” he says gruffly.

Bruce flexes his hand once, shifts his back against the sheets. “Of course, Tony,” he says, surprised that this is all that Tony wants, but satisfied that he can give it so easily. “How?”

Tony’s eyes fix on his. “Just so I can see,” is all he says, and kneels up, grasping his own cock in his hand.

Bruce stares -- it’s his first good look at Tony’s cock, and it had certainly felt impressive inside him, but this is different. He’s proportional, not enormous, though he’s definitely wider than average. He leans a little to the left, and is currently deeply red, leaking clear droplets from the slit. Bruce’s mouth waters, but all he does is lick his lips and watch Tony’s hand move on his cock. He matches up the rhythm of his hand with Tony’s, but Tony knee-walks up between his thighs and runs his free hand along the welted back of one of Bruce’s thighs. Bruce chokes out a little gasp and squeezes himself harder, hand twisting before he realizes that he’s trying to match Tony. “No,” Tony says, and pinches the tender skin where Bruce’s ass meets his thigh hard. “Just do it how it comes naturally to you.”

Bruce sighs out his acceptance, and allows himself the pressure and the twist, the harsh burn of his dry palm on the thin skin of his cock, and Tony plays with Bruce’s welts and watches him with patient, attentive eyes, his cock nudging against Bruce’s thigh as he jerks it, and it isn’t as rough as Bruce might have normally done for himself, but it doesn’t need to be. The combination of his welted back and thighs and his aching balls and the rough, tight curl of his fist and the way that Tony watches him as though there is nothing else he’d rather see, pushes Bruce gasping into orgasm, feeling the taut pull of pain across his skin as he arches, forcing his eyes open and on Tony so that he gets to see that, too, Tony hunching over Bruce’s chest and shooting his come across Bruce’s stomach and the hand still on his cock. Tony shudders, huffs out a breath, and then stretches up to kiss Bruce hard, not rough but commanding, deliberately demanding, and Bruce opens himself up to it and lets it happen, still open and soft and raw, still willing to do anything, still keenly aware of the barely-there weight of Tony’s collar around his throat.

Tony cleans them up with a hilariously inappropriate box of baby wipes and says, “Stay right here,” to Bruce.

He goes to Steve’s door and raps lightly. It takes Steve a few seconds to open the door. Even from across the room, Bruce can see that Steve’s hair is mussed, he’s flushed and sweaty, and his lips look bitten. “Okay?” is all Tony asks.

Steve nods, shoots a glance at Bruce, and says, “Can I see?”

Tony looks at Bruce for a long moment, and then shrugs. “Come on over, Bruce. Stay on your feet.”

Bruce does, slightly unsteadily. Steve’s eyes are huge. As Bruce gets closer, he notes that Steve’s cock is hard as well. Bruce turns without having to be asked, and Steve sucks in a surprised breath. Bruce turns back around, and Steve is open-mouthed and stunned looking. “I want to...” he says, and then closes his mouth, less like he’s changed his mind, and more like he isn’t sure what would come out.

“We’ll talk about what you want to do later. Right now I’m going to clean Bruce up and put something on those welts. Will you get together something for us to eat when we’re done?”

“Sure, of course,” Steve says. His gaze is still fixed on Bruce. Bruce finds that it isn’t bothering him, with surprised pleasure. Steve starts to struggle into his clothes as Tony leads Bruce into the bathroom.

Tony gestures toward the enormous jacuzzi, which is somehow already filled with steaming water, but when Bruce moves to step down into it, Tony takes his arm and helps him keep his balance as the hot water makes him hiss.

“Good?” Tony asks curiously.

Bruce winces and tries to crouch rather than sit, but he half-smiles a little anyway. “Yeah. Not as good as the....” He gestures. “But still good.”

“Hope so,” Tony says. “Because I’m about to scrub the hell out of you.” He sounds cheerful about it.

“You’re more than a moderate sadist,” Bruce accuses, shifting again while the hot water stings him everywhere.

“Maybe a little more,” Tony says. He sits on the floor and puts his feet into the water. “Maybe just the right partner.”

Bruce flushes, and Tony tips his face up to kiss him. “Thank you for taking my collar, Bruce,” he murmurs very solemnly, his dark eyes soft. “I promise you, you won’t regret it.”

Bruce isn’t afraid of that at all.

He says, “Thank you for noticing that first day.”

Tony smiles, wide and easy. “Of course I noticed. I’m a genius,” he says, and Bruce indignantly catches a calf and drags him into the water. He surfaces, laughing, and says, “Already so insubordinate.” He wraps an arm around Bruce and tips their foreheads together. “This is going to be so much fun.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Down Deep (where they all can see)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/642102) by [mabonwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabonwitch/pseuds/mabonwitch)




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